One Black Day
by i sing of olaf
Summary: Sometimes jobs go wrong. Sometimes good men die, or go missing. A good operative doesn't concern himself with these details. A good operative doesn't let relationships get in the way. Arthur Kirkland must not be a very good operative then. A "spy" story of sorts, USUK.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: **Violence (mild torture), language

When Francis opens his eyes he knows exactly where he is, and he does not even allow himself the chance to be afraid. He's good, he's very good, but this isn't his first time. He knows, immediately. He knows what he is. He's caught.

He just doesn't know by whom.

It could be the Russians, easily, Ivan or that slick freak girl who licks knives, because they've been gaining on him since last Christmas and he hasn't been careful. He wouldn't put it past them, not the rope holding him down to the metal chair bolted to the dingy concrete floor or the cold, cold room with one pale light.

It's awfully standard, he thinks, and he wants to guffaw because god damn is he the only one with any _style?_

But the door opens then and there's a click click click of someone's heels, and Francis doesn't lift his head yet, doesn't breathe and doesn't speak, and isn't shocked to find that the shoes below him are black and leather and neatly laced.

So his captor isn't an eccentric, that's all he knows. And he doesn't seek to know any more. The light goes out.

He mourns the loss of proper beauty sleep, but while he's grateful to rest at all, he's curious. It could be a ploy, sure, leaving him on his own for this long. But rather than feeling bothered by it Francis just gets bored, and when he hears the locks being fiddled with he's looking up, ready to get this done.

It's Arthur.

That's all he can think. For a very brief moment his body (not his mind, it's too good for that) thinks that it is being rescued. But Arthur's face is blank and his eyes, green and sharp and always, _always_ so full of life—they're dead. And Francis thinks for a second maybe they're both dead. But then he figures Arthur's just fucking with him.

He's got that sardonic smile on, and it's not new. Nor is the black zip-up laptop case tucked beneath the Englishman's arm.

Francis feels like he's swallowed a bucket of ice.

"Surprised to see me, Bonnefoy?"

Francis doesn't answer; his voice is lost.

Arthur removes the case from under his arm and places it at Francis' feet. He straightens and begins to pace the room, casually circling the restrained Frenchman.

"While you're not the worst I've ever tracked, I certainly expected better from you. Barbados was a grave mistake, Francis. But I suppose you weren't really trying to hide from _me_, were you?"

Francis gulps on cue, but the shivering is very real. This isn't Arthur. This isn't the grumpy Englishman with a penchant for argyle and a tendency to cry when he drinks. This is Agent Kirkland, class A operative, master of stealth and interrogations specialist.

This is a madman.

Arthur stops on a dime.

"So tell me, Francis, how have you been? I've been just splendid myself. Have you ever scoured the earth in search of your lover's killer?" He turns his head sharply to the right and leers at Francis, who tries to keep a blank face and fails.

"It's marvelous, I tell you. Quite the holiday. Do you know that last week I pulled the soupy remnants of a man out of some dreadful French waterway? And do you know that the moment I saw a scrap of blond hair I nearly threw myself in?"

Even if Francis could speak, he would have no response to this uncharacteristic desperation, and his stomach rolls with guilt and grief. He knows. He knows why Arthur is here. And he knows there is no way this day can end in anything other than sorrow.

"Rosbif, why are you doing this?" Francis asks tiredly. So he knows. He knows that Francis knows. But that doesn't explain the theatrics.

Arthur pauses for a moment, his thick eyebrows rising past his hairline before he scoffs.

He scoops the laptop bag up and unzips it quickly, efficiently, before pulling a pair of scissors from inside.

"Arthur, mon dieu, enough already! I'll tell you whatever you want to know!" He's not really afraid, no, he's just angry, angry that Arthur would push it this far when they both know, they both _know_ Arthur would never hurt him that way, that he couldn't-

Arthur snaps the scissors open and drags them, flattened, against the inside of Francis' left arm.

"Do you know how I have suffered?" He whispers as he turns the scissors up, digging the point into Francis' flesh.

"Arthur..." Francis breathes out carefully, watching the thin string of blood fall down his arm and dribble onto his pant leg. "That picture..."

"Francis. I have only one thing to say." Arthur straightens again.

"You, of all people, know what I am capable of."

* * *

It's quiet, and Francis is alone once more. He understands why he is alone now. This is not an interrogation, it's a punishment.

He's trying to wrap his head around what Arthur wants from him when the door opens again, and Arthur falls into the room, his suit jacket missing and a bottle of liquor in his hand.

"I'll give you a hint, Frog." He mutters as he falls against Francis' chair, washing his captive's face in the scent of some atrocious American-made whiskey.

"So you've figured out what I _found_, haven't you?" He slurs. Francis tries to turn away, but Arthur follows him, pressing in close and staring at him with foggy green eyes.

"I should have told you."

Arthur hiccups away, chuckling darkly.

"'N what good would that've done me, mate? Given my nightmares a different tone?" Arthur pauses, tipping the bottle back and taking long, practiced swallows before he slams it to the floor, glass shattering everywhere.

"You 'n I both know what that amounts to, love, but tell me what it _means?_" Arthur has a piece of the glass in his hand now and he's advancing, and Francis is terrified, his bladder hurts and his ass is sore and it's hopeless, so fucking hopeless, but he responds just the same.

"What does it mean, Arthur?"

Arthur stops, his arms going limp, the shard of glass balanced on loose fingertips as the stunned Englishman glowers at his prisoner.

"It might mean they're dead. It might mean they're not. But what it means, Francis Bonnefoy, is that at some point in time they were, most certainly, _alive._"

He moves so quickly then that Francis has to wonder if the drunkenness was all a ploy. The glass cuts air and skin, sliding fast against Francis' face. It's just a nick, but it stings like hell and the Frenchman hisses.

"You've been running from someone, lad. You've been hiding. And _this_-" He pulls the photograph from his shirt pocket, unfolding it quickly and pressing it into Francis' still-bleeding face "is bloody _proof_ that you know something you shouldn't."

He backs off at last, pocketing the photo once more and smoothing down his shirt and hair. Francis glares up at him, his feelings and thoughts knocking around his worn mind and leaving him with nothing more than a sharp awareness of his body's many needs.

"I know you're going to tell me everything, Francis. And you and I are going to find out everything we can about this little photograph."

"What's there to tell, Arthur? Oui, oui, your américain was alive. Maybe he is now. I should have told you this, sure, but I was trying to keep my fucking head!"

Francis heaves in a breath, frustrated and exhausted. Arthur's eyes are wicked as he sizes up his infuriated prisoner.

"I already knew."

Silence.

"AVEZ-VOUS DEVE-"

"And what gives you the right to be angry, hm? You didn't tell me. You didn't know that I knew. You found out that he-" Arthur stopped abruptly and whipped around to hide his face, but Francis could hear the tears in his voice.

"You knew. The love of... but you didn't tell me."

Neither of them speak. Arthur sways a bit, trying unsuccessfully to wipe at his face without Francis seeing.

"A friend told me they had seen Matthew and a man just like him outside a club in Lyon. I stuck my nose in, and the morning after I woke up with a bad headache and that photograph stapled to my chest."

Francis pauses, watching for a reaction, but Arthur is still.

"There was a man outside of my room with a garotte, a gun, and a threat. I fled that morning, and I have been running for over a month."

Arthur sniffs, but he doesn't turn around or speak.

"Arthur, I am sorry. I am. But I do not know what we can do."

Arthur pulls the picture out once more, turning to face Francis as he studies it, his eyes hooded and his mouth a grim line.

"They're better than this. All of it. And to think that I am..." Arthur glances up, his eyes remorseful. "If he were to see what I've become."

"Arthur, you can't-"

"I can't let it end this way, Francis. Even if it means the death of me. I can't look at something like this and just... run away. Perhaps you can, but it's not in me."

Arthur tosses the photo onto Francis' lap before crouching to undo the knots holding him down.

Francis touches his face first, his eyes anywhere but down as Arthur exits the room at last.

When he can't help himself any longer, he looks.

There's two headless bodies in his lap.

**Author's Notes:** Thanks so much for reading. Please, if you have the time, let me know what you think of the story so far. The next update will be here very soon!


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings: **Fluff, language.

Lagos sounds like madness in the morning.

Arthur yawns, stretches, scratches and doesn't roll over. He slides his fingers beneath his pillow, feeling for the shape of the gun there and sighing. He stares at the alarm clock beside him, its face reminding him that he's got three more hours in this room. He wonders if he could pretend to sleep that long.

Alfred ruins everything by getting up. One second he's murmuring his way into consciousness, and the next he's sitting upright, cracking his back with swift and painful-sounding movements.

Arthur still doesn't move or make a sound, until a warm hand slips its way down his naked back.

"G'morning sunshine~"

"Bugger off."

Alfred snorts and shuffles in closer, the heat of his body pressing against Arthur, his long, thin nose finding its way into Arthur's hair.

"Grumpy gus..." he whispers, but his hands are sweetly moving all over, rubbing Arthur into the sort of wakefulness he can't handle this early in the morning.

"Alright, alright, lad. I'm up." Arthur drawls, pulling himself from the bed and heading toward the bathroom without a glance behind him.

Once the door is closed and the shower is on, he sits down hard on the closed toilet lid and just breathes.

It's a mere seven minutes and thirty three seconds later when he emerges, a plume of steam erupting behind him and following him out into the empty room.

He goes for the gun first, his underpants second. The closet is empty, as well as the space beneath the bed. The door is no longer bolted and the chair has moved, but this isn't a surprise, considering the only window in the room is a single pane of two-inch thick glass that cannot be opened.

He's shuffling on his pants when the door opens again, and even though he recognizes Alfred moving through it nonchalantly, he almost wants to shoot.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" He doesn't want to sound worried, he wants to sound furious, but Alfred just smiles.

"Donuts!" Is his brilliant answer, and he flourishes a brown cardboard box emblazoned with the name of the hip little bakery they had scoped out the day before.

Arthur wants to strangle him. He wants to pistol whip him and stuff those saccharine monstrosities down his throat. But he knows when he's defeated, and he snatches a chocolate-covered pastry from the box before slapping the grinning blond in the face.

"Wha—Artie, no hitting! Fuck, you're grouchy." Alfred pouts, cradling his precious donuts against his chest and glaring.

"We're supposed to be on _lockdown_, you ignorant twat. Do you know what lockdown means? You could have been killed!"

"Arthur, come on. This is preschool level. Those thugs lost our scent the minute we switched cars outside Ikeja. You know we're only sittin' tight to humor Mattie."

Arthur scoffs, sniffing at what he supposes will have to be his breakfast and mourning the lack of a kettle in their room.

"Why don't you run that idea by Antonio's bullet wound? It seems to have misinterpreted the situation."

"He was chasing tail! For fuck's sake, he was nearly suicidal!" Alfred explodes. Arthur's honestly surprised by this violent reaction, and he waits a moment, observing the flustered American as he huffs, falling onto the bed and stuffing another donut into his mouth.

Gingerly, Arthur sits down beside him, still avoiding his eyes.

"Didn't mean to start a fight." He says quietly, and he means it. He's tired, he's hot, and the thrum of the city is rubbing soreness into his bones like a fever. But he doesn't want to fight. He just wants something comfortable, and a fight is so natural, so easy.

Far easier than what he needs to do.

Alfred is silent for a while, and when he speaks, it is with the solemn, careful tone that Arthur despises.

"Last night, you kept saying the same thing again and again. 'Take this seriously, Alfred. This has to be serious.'"

Alfred sits up, grabbing for Arthur's face and forcing their eyes to meet.

"I did. Did you?"

Exposed. It's one of the worst feelings in the world for someone who lives a life of espionage, but Arthur can't avoid it. Alfred has him trapped, his blue eyes tugging at his mind, pulling at the memories he's trying so hard to avoid. The memories of an exposure far greater than this. One that he asked for, the one that he'd wanted for so long.

He doesn't have the heart to lie to himself anymore, much less to Alfred.

"Yes."

Alfred wants him to elaborate, but this proximity, this blasted _interrogation_ is making his stomach flutter.

"God, Alfred, haven't I suffered enough?"

Alfred looks hurt, but Arthur rolls his eyes.

"You've drained me of my affection, darling. I don't... I can't do this the way you want. You have to..." He trails off, jerks his chin away from Alfred's grip and abruptly stands, digging through his suitcase for a shirt.

"What do you need, Artie?"

Arthur snorts.

"First off, the Artie business has to end. Second, you... you need to teach me, Alfred."

Alfred doesn't answer him. He just watches as Arthur disappears into his shirt, a gray button-up that's going to give him a heat stroke.

He stands, dawdles, hands in his jean pockets as he casually comes to stand in front of the flustered Brit.

Suddenly, he strikes a pose, one finger pointing toward heaven, his other hand on his chest.

"Agent Kirkland, the Crank! This is a life-or-death mission straight from the top!" He grabs Arthur by the hips before he can escape, ignoring his curses and sputters as he spins them down and onto the bed, Alfred straddling him.

And as far as lines go, 'Prepare for briefing' has got to be the corniest Arthur has ever heard, but it doesn't prevent his lips from finding Alfred's own.

**Author's Notes:** I do hate to sound desperate, but, if you are reading this, please let me know. It seems so far that people aren't enjoying it, and if that is indeed the case, I need not waste time working on it further. So please, favorite, follow, review, lemme know I suck, anything would be nice.

Thanks for taking the time to read my story!


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